


Snowman

by conceptofzero



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Gen, Multi, Snowman Month
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 13,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conceptofzero/pseuds/conceptofzero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>31 short fics written for Snowman Month (August), 2013. Pairings begin based on days (eg 8/1, 8/2, 8/3) and become an assortment of AUs and other pairings beyond 8/15.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Itchy (8/1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Itchy (8/1)

Itchy is a loud, irresponsible disgusting pervert. This is a description he not only welcomes but actively encourages, so she is quite shocked when he turns up at her bedroom with a lovely bouquet of irises and lilacs, and a bag of black licorice wheels. 

"Hey Snowman, y’wanna charm up with me? My star is wide open and you’re exactly the kind of person I want to fill it." He offers her the items and then steps into her room to look around. "Did you get a new fucking couch?"

"Yes, Doc Scratch replaced it a few days ago. It had a stain on it and had to go." She didn’t bother to explain what sort of stain it was. This was Itchy after all, he would jump to the conclusion that amused him most and attempting to correct those thoughts would just be a waste of breath. Snowman has a vase in her bedroom that she fetches to put the flowers in. The licorice wheels are set aside to be eaten later, when she’s sure this isn’t a prank. 

"It’s nice. He’s got pretty good taste in shit for not having any, y’know, eyes and stuff." He lounges on the couch, looking entirely too comfortable for her tastes. "You look good. That’s a nice fucking dress."

"Thank you." She sets the flowers on the coffee table and takes a seat beside Itchy, glancing over at him. "If this is some sort of prank, you know I’ll make your life miserable." 

"Oh yeah, no worried, I fucking know that. This ain’t a prank though. I take my charms fucking seriously." She can almost believe him. He’s not the kind of person who can hang onto a straight face for long, but he’s doing a decent job about it here. "I’m not asking for a fucking trove, though maybe if this goes well, we can talk about it. I just think we could be really fucking compatible and I’d be a fucking great charm-mate. You can chat with Doze and Clover if you want to know what I’m like. They’ll fucking back me up. I’m great." 

"I would think you would prefer to enter into a romantic entanglement with one of your own species." Snowman politely notes, though she does raise an eyebrow. She’s aware of the the other men’s species’ rather specific types of romance and most of them don’t seem too compatible with carapacians of any kind. 

"I’m already in six charms with those shitheads and those other three aren’t fucking filling the way they should. I want to try something new and see if that solves it. And you’re fucking hot, and I’m fucking hot too, so we’d be super hot together." Itchy says this with the kind of confidence that almost masks the fact that the first time they met, he was horribly confused by the fact that she had breasts. It’s clear that as time’s passed, he’s come around to the idea of them and formed much more positive conclusions. "Plus I’m not a jealous guy. You can charm up or fuck whoever else you want, so long as you let me do the same. You just can’t star up with other people. That goes for me too." 

"You make a very convincing case." Snowman agrees, noticing that Itchy’s been scooting closer and closer to her. She allows him to, smiling just slightly at how forward he’s being. "One last thing; I have no idea what the star charm entails." 

"See, that’s the best part. I can teach you all about it." He attempts to put an arm around her shoulder but when he’s unable to reach up comfortable, he settles for burrowing it behind her back and slinging it around her waist instead. "What do you say?" 

Snowman considers it briefly and nods. “Why not? New experiences are always enjoyable.” 

"Alright! Let’s seal the deal!" For a moment, she expects him to lean in and kiss her. Instead, he gets to his feet and yanks her up as well, dragging Snowman away from the couch. Her record player in the corner clicks on after Itchy momentarily blurs, and starts to play as he pulls her into a basic box step. "Come on, charm partner, let’s see how you do it." 

Snowman can’t help but laugh a little, setting one arm on his shoulder as they begin to move around the room. Perhaps this will be fun after all.


	2. Doze (8/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doze (8/2)

He’s got his own room, though he never really goes there these days. Snowman made room in her closet for his things and he’s got his toothbrush hanging in the holder beside hers. They share a collection of books and a selection of teas and his half of the bed has that one limp pillow that he loves that she can’t stand. 

It wasn’t something they planned on. It’s just that it was more convenient to keep some of his things in her room, especially when it took up so much of his time to shuffle down to his room and then to shuffle back up to hers. Somewhere along the line, he moved everything important over and forgot about the rest. 

They’ve never really talked about a lot of things. Instead, they fell into comfortable patterns with each other, neatly fitting into each other’s lives until it became hard to see where the holes had once been. Snowman appreciates how casual and easy this is. She’s had enough drama to last her a lifetime and what she wants now is something soothing and calm. Something slow. 

This isn’t to say that they don’t occasionally get on each others nerves. Doze does have a sharp tongue when he gets going and he can hold a grudge worse than even Slick. On those few occasions, Doze goes to his room and she stays in hers, surrounded by all his things, waiting for the moment when Doze apologizes to her (or, occasionally, when she’s the one who eats a healthy serving of humble pie). 

Their favorite thing to do is to brew a pot of blackberry tea and to curl up on the couch together. Doze lays his head against her thighs, reading whatever history book has his attention recently, while Snowman lets a hand idly rest on his stomach, devouring one of those dense political thrillers she’s fond of. They will occasionally stop to chat with each other, or to fool around, but mostly they’re perfectly content to just read in silence together, enjoying their books and their quiet company.


	3. Trace (8/3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trace (8/3)

“I’m sorry! I said I was sorry like, at least six times already!” Trace is outside her bathroom door and she’s doing her best to ignore him, focusing instead on trying to peel off the glue on her shell. “I didn’t think it would be a big deal! I mean, your skin is smooth as a table! It should be coming off easy!”

It wasn’t. It was coming off in little chunks, breaking each time she thought she had a nice long strip ready to pull. And it wasn’t coming off smoothly either, leaving behind little sticky bits she was being forced to scrape off. Her shell had marks on it from the scraping and no amount of smoothing would ease those out before their dinner reservation, which was at eight tonight.

Snowman had been promised a lovely night out, and instead, had woken to find that Trace had decided that what their relationship was lacking was a prank, so he glued her hand to her face. The hand had come off, eventually, once they pulled hard enough, and now she was putting her face back in order.

She had been furious and mortified, and now she was just tired and upset, trying so hard to peel it off her face. But there’s still half of a palm-sized patch left, not to mention a few fingertips here and there on her brow. Her hand is finally clean at least, though her patience is worn thin, and all it takes is one more knock from Trace for her to unlock the door and open it, just to snap at “What?” at him.

He flinches a little but doesn’t budge from his place at the door. “Can you just… can you just talk to me? Are we broken up?”

“No, we aren’t broken up, you idiot!” She growls at Trace. “I’m angry and you’re going to pay for this, but we aren’t broken up!”

“Oh… okay good. I’m sorry. Again. Sorry.” Trace reaches up to touch her face, starting to peel. “I guess dinner’s off… I know you were excited for it.”

“I was. And when my face is better, we will go again. But until then, you are going to help me get all of this off, and you will be helping me get my shell glossy and smooth again, or I will glue both of your hands to your dick.” Snowman says to him, making no bones about it.

“Fair enough. Uh, can you sit down so I can reach easier?” He gestures to the side of the tub, and she takes a seat, turning her face so he can get it off. Snowman stares ahead, already formulating revenge. He wants to add pranks to their relationship? Oh she’ll add pranks.


	4. Clover (8/4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clover (8/4)

By all accounts, she should despise him. He has a rude and often cruel sense of humour and hides behind his luck so he never faces any consequences more serious than stony silence. Most of the Felt finds him tiresome at best and outright offensive on most days.

And yet, she enjoys her time with Clover. He’s a vicious gossip and a cuddler, always eager to climb up on her shoulders or into her lap, and he makes her laugh, even if sometimes she’s just laughing because what he’s saying is too unbelievable not to laugh at.

He likes to travel with her and they visit settlements together around the planet, Clover enjoying being the center of attention while she gets to fade into the background, wrapped in layers and disguised so only a few ever get suspicious of who the tall stranger might be. He’s never dull and there’s always something to do with him, even if half of his suggestions involve them having sex.

Clover flirts constantly and naturally, and she always turns him down gently, until the day she changes her mind and says “Why not?” just to watch him stumble with surprise. He’s a lucky man though, and it’s only a mild stumble before he’s back at it, cheerfully suggesting something she knows is physically impossible for him. But who is she to burst his bubble?


	5. Fin (8/5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fin (8/5)

Fin sets the pack of cigarettes in front of her, sitting in the only open spot in the booth, which happens to be right beside her. “There, now you can’t say I never gave you anything.”

Snowman looks at the package of cigarettes (Red Flints, known more for their flashy packaging than their quality) and raises an eyebrow at him. “I don’t believe I was ever in the habit of saying such things.”

“Well I’m just covering my bases. You never know when you might decide to say something.” Fin pulls his hat off and scratches nervously at his skull. He looks more on edge than usual. “Anyway, most the other guys don’t smoke, and I only bought them to chat up the cigarette girl, so somebody who can use ‘em should have ‘em.”

“How flattering.” She deadpans, checking her pockets to see how many cigarettes she has left. Snowman’s a bit surprised to find an empty carton, particularly considering that she always makes a point of purchasing a new package whenever she gets low (Coffin Nails, less harsh than the name suggests, and in a black package that matches everything she wears). Snowman raises an eyebrow at Fin. “Am I to believe that this is a coincidence?”

“Uh, yeah?” He nudges the package toward her. Fin’s trying to play cool, but he’s about as bad at it as he is at being smooth or subtle. “Ain’t like I’m making a statement or nothing.”

“Of course.” Snowman eyes the package up and after a moment, sets her hand on it and slides them into her coat pocket. “But if it was a statement of some kind… it’s welcome.”

Fin ducks his head a little and quickly tucks his hat back on, but not so quick that she can’t see his cheeks darken. “Well, y’know, I hate to see anything go to waste.”

She smiles a little to herself, trusting that he’s already seen the expression on her future trail.


	6. Die (8/6)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Die (8/6)

Snowman finds him crammed behind a stack of crates, holding his intestines in with one hand. He smells like blood and death, and he’s breathing quicker than he should. She knows that Stitch is dealing with everyone as best he can, but Die needs attention and he needs it now.

“Hold on.” She tells him, getting her arms underneath Die’s knees and shoulders, pulling him against her and lifting him into the air. He’s going to bleed all over her but right now, she doesn’t care. Stitch can make her a new coat if the blood doesn’t come out, but he can’t make a new Die. “Can you hear me?”

“Y. Yes.” He says, voice cracking. The smell is worse when he’s this close to her and she can see why: he’s taken a shotgun blast to the torso. It’s a wonder it didn’t split him in two. His hands have curled inward and they’re resting on his chest, still clutching his pistol.

“We’re going to a hospital now. Just hold on.” She would teleport him out, but she’s not sure she can risk it, not when he’s full of buckshot. Who knows what that would do to his insides. But she won’t leave him here where he’s helpless. Snowman keeps him carefully cradled in her arms, making sure not to hurt him any more than he’s been hurt, and she carries him out of the warehouse.

The gunfire comes to a stop when she passes through a room, no one willing to shoot around her and risk ending the world. Die lies limp in her arms, oozing blood and other things. The car is just outside and she walks as fast as she dares with him cradled against her. He moans in pain now and again, but mostly he just stares at her, his face pale and his body shivering from the blood loss.

Itchy’s waiting by the car and his eyes go wide as he sees them. “What the fuck happened to him?”

“Just get in and drive us straight to the hospital. He can’t wait any longer.” She knows there must be someone more serious than Die or Stitch would be tending to him, but they can’t keep waiting. Snowman gets into the back, keeping Die settled in her lap. He’s curled against her and she just keeps him still so he doesn’t hurt himself. “Just a little longer. Will you hold on for me?”

Speaking no longer seems to be an option for him, but he nods; for her, he’ll hold on. Itchy hits the gas and Snowman keeps Die safe as she can as they hit the road.


	7. Crowbar (8/7)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowbar (8/7)

It’s late when she arrives home, freshly stitched wounds on her body and her clothes stained with blood. Crowbar is asleep and she leaves the light off as she walks to the bathroom, letting the hot water wash her clean and soothed her aching body. By the time she emerges, he’s woken up and is sitting up in bed, waiting for her. He looks so tired and she switches off the light as his eyes squint from the brightness. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s fine, I was waking up about every hour. I can’t sleep when you’re not here.” Her eyes take time to adjust to the dark and she uses his voice to help her make her way to the bed, fingers finding the baseboard and tracing along it until she reaches the other side. Crowbar’s drawn the blankets back for her and she slides in, sighing with contentment. He curls against her a moment later. “How did it go?”

“As well as things can when the Midnight Crew are involved. Slick managed to stab me a few times- no, don’t worry, they were shallow.” She can feel him tense up when he hears she’s been stabbed, and his hands seek out the wounds. Snowman guides his hands to the appropriate locations, letting him feel the gaps in her shell that haven’t had time to heal yet. The flesh underneath is stitched though and aside from being sore, will heal and be unnoticeable in no time. She hates scarring her shell, but that’s simply part of the business. “And I returned the wounds he gave me two-fold. He won’t be running anytime soon, not after I stabbed his left foot with my heel.”

He’s impossibly gentle with her, touching her wounds lightly and carefully, and then making sure to put his hands where they aren’t. Her eyes are adjusted by now and she can see him smile a little in the dark, even if his eyes still look concerned. “I don’t worry about you. You can take care of yourself.”

“Liar.” She chides him gently. He admitted himself he was up every hour, waiting on her. But she kisses him all the same, loving him for the concern he shows her. He’s a sweet man. “I can, but I enjoy it when you take care of me, in your own way.”

It’s late and they should sleep, but she’s grinning and so is he, laughing a little and leaning in close to her. He can’t save her from Slick (and he shouldn’t - Slick’s her job), but he can save her in the bedroom; love her and build her up until she feels like a queen again. Crowbar kisses her and she curls into him, letting herself be lost in the comfort of his arms.


	8. Snowman (8/8)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snowman (8/8)

She waits. She has always been very good at waiting.

There was the waiting for the War and the waiting in exile and the waiting for the end, and now, now she waits for the true End. Waiting is second nature to the once and future Queen, something she does easily after all this time. Even in death, there are things to do, games to play with men in robes and tea. There is always tea.

Somewhere, in a little universe nested inside a frog, a man carries a white doll with a black pin in it. One day, he’ll pull it. It isn’t a matter of if, only a matter of when.

She understands that time cannot be rushed and that things happen in their own times. Sometimes, it can be frustrating to see the days and hours tick past and to know there is nothing you can do but wait. But only sometimes, and only for a brief little while. Nothing is forever, not even death.

She is the once and future Queen. Her kingdom awaits her. It does not matter how long she has to wait or what she must suffer: her kingdom will be restored to her once more and she will once again rule over her people. It was fun being Snowman, even when it wasn’t, but it’s time to move on. Snowman is dead now, and in her death, she saw the universe fall with her, as she always knew she should.

Now the woman without a name waits patiently for the pin to be withdrawn and for the next life to begin. There will be a new role for her on the other side, a new name, a new people to lead and guide. There will always be a Queen.

All she needs to do is wait.


	9. Stitch (8/9)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stitch (8/9)

Sometimes, she’s surprised he’s willing to indulge her. While there are many things she’s had to learn to content herself with, a lesser wardrobe isn’t one of them. Stitch is grumpy and often out of patience for everyone he speaks with, yet he never seems to mind when she comes by to ask for a new outfit.

There’s an obvious answer to why he doesn’t mind sewing new things, but he hasn’t asked her to undress for him since he took her initial measurements and he always provides her a privacy screen to change behind. While a part of her appreciates how gentlemanly he can be, if she’s being honest, she wouldn’t entirely mind getting undressed for him.

He’s doing alterations to her newest dress when she asks him the question. “Why don’t you mind making me so many things?”

“‘cause you appreciate them and you treat ‘em well, unlike the rest of these chucklefucks. At least you look as pissed as I feel when you show up with tears in your stuff.” He tugs at the waist, pinning where it’s a little loose on her. Stitch is so professional that she occasionally has to remind herself not to tease him. “Straighten up.”

She does, keeping her arms away from her sides. “Is that all?”

“You need more reasons?” Stitch raises an eyebrow, grumping a little to himself. He moves around to her front, fixing the folds and fussing with how they fall. “It’s a change from the same fucking suits, day in and day out. And if they want anything different, I’ve got to fight with ‘em to make it something classy instead of whatever awful dreck they think is in style. If I had to fight with you about that too, I’d hate sewing for you as much as I hate sewing for them. Now what do you think?”

He steps back and gestures for Snowman to look at herself in the mirror. Her new dress looks great and she turns a little from side to side to admire it, then nods. “I think you might be fond of me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, you’ve got a big enough ego without thinking that. Now get that off and I’ll make the adjustments.” Stitch shoos her behind the screen and hunkers down in front of his table, deliberately ignoring her. Snowman just smiles to herself and changes.


	10. Sawbuck (8/10)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sawbuck (8/10)

They spend most of their time out on the town. She knows they’re an odd couple, but no one can say they don’t have fun. Most of the time, they do dinner and a show, either something at one of the theaters or occasionally a concert. They’re always among the first patrons anytime something new opens up and before long, invites start arriving with their names on them.

They don’t attend to criticize, though she’s well aware that their absence is noted in those places they visit once and then never return to. They don’t attend to be seen, though they often are and they make no efforts to hide themselves. They don’t attend for anyone else’s benefit but their own.

He always dresses up, trading in his usual green suit for a well tailored set of pinstripes. She enjoys the chance to show off an assortment of dresses, both of them flaunting their access to the best tailor on Alternia. Sawbuck is a meticulous eater and she appreciates eating with him, knowing that they’ll leave as tidy and neat as when they entered. He’s also good company; funny without being vulgar, intelligent without being condescending. She feels improved by his presence rather than detracted by it and he simultaneously makes her feel like the center of attention while also making it clear that he views her as his equal. It’s a special quality and one she appreciates.

They don’t talk during the shows, both of them saving their comments for when it’s over, even if what they’re watching is dreadful and only worth laughing at, not with. There’s always time to talk it over, on the drive back or later in bed, their pillow talk always more concerned with discussing actors and actresses or plot choices than with worrying about where this relationship is going or how they feel about each other.

The truth is that she doesn’t particularly care where this is going, so long as they’re both still having fun. As for how he feels? She already knows the answer to that one. He makes his feelings clear when he reaches for her hand in the dark of the theater or when he brushes his foot up against hers during dinner, or just from the arm around her waist when she sleeps. Snowman doesn’t need to worry about those three words when she’s got plenty of other more important things to discuss with Sawbuck.


	11. Matchsticks (8/11)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matchsticks (8/11)

He always has a light for her. For a man who’s a quick draw with a fire extinguisher, he’s surprisingly handy with a lighter when the time comes. When she steps out on the back porch to smoke at night, Matchsticks is always there with his lighter, offering her a flame when she needs it.

“I wouldn’t have expected it of you,” she remarks one night, leaning against the railing. He’s a handsome enough man in his overcoat, solid in a way that some of the others aren’t. It’s not just flab on him; it’s muscle along his body. “Of all the men I thought would have a lighter…”

He smiles a little. Matchsticks doesn’t have a face made for smiling, so he never does more than slightly tip both sides of his mouth up and then let them drop. But a smile’s a smile, even if it’s easily missed. “Sometimes it’s worth having one for the little things, like lighting a pretty lady’s cigarette.”

Snowman slips the cigarette in her mouth and inhales, filling her lungs. As she exhales, she favours him with a smile of her own, her lips pulling back just enough to show the tips of her teeth. “Only pretty?”

“Maybe more than just pretty.” He admits and looks away from her. She just leans against the balcony and enjoys the sunset with him.


	12. Eggs (8/12)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggs (8/12)

He brings her flowers. Snowman isn’t sure where he finds them in the desert, but every few days, she opens her door and finds a vase of flowers waiting for her. She knows he picked them instead of purchasing them because the bouquets never match and are full of roots and a little dirt and torn stems. He picks flowers he thinks she’ll like, not what he thinks will look good together.

Snowman trims the roots and washes them clean and places them in a vase in her room, leaving her door open so he can see. He’ll peek in, usually in the afternoon, just to see if the flowers are there. Eggs is shy and he often leaves as soon as he sees her, not even bothering with an excuse of some kind. But if she waits patiently, he’ll return again and look at her if he thinks she’s not looking at him.

She’s not sure if he wants more from her. Her few invitations for him to join her for tea or lunch end with his face a different shade of green and with him finding a reason to be somewhere else. Though sometimes he will ask her to join him instead, usually backed by a dozen other clones all clutching their alarm clocks and packed tight together, as some sort of safety-in-numbers way of approaching her. On those occasions, they take her outside and show her whatever it is they’ve created or just take her down to the dining room and share a tin of sweets with her, giving her half the tin and watching her carefully until she inevitably shares the rest with them.

Snowman finds him to be sweet, if perhaps a little confused about what exactly he wants from her. Still though, she’ll take that over some of the other more crude and off-putting courtships others have tried. He may be shy to a fault, but it still makes her smile to see flowers outside her door.


	13. Biscuits (8/13)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Biscuits (8/13)

He isn’t much of a conversationalist, but she doesn’t visit him for conversation. Biscuits doesn’t have many deep thoughts or plans for the future; he rarely has plans for anything but dinner. If she wants someone to debate with, she has Crowbar. If she wants someone to make her laugh, she has Itchy. But when she wants someone to fuck?

That’s what she has Biscuits for.

He’s not in this for a relationship, or at least not anything other than physical and she finds it refreshing to know there is no hidden agenda with him, no strings on his offers. Snowman comes and goes as she pleases, and not to belabour the point, but she is always pleased when she comes. He’s a simple man, straightforward and focused. Biscuits approaches her body with the sort of determination she’s seen him use on busting down doors or dangling uncooperative people off buildings.

The thing she likes best is how good he makes her feel. It isn’t like being worshipped but its in the same ballpark. He makes her feel powerful with no clothes on, like she could kill with nothing more than her thighs. Lust is a flame and she warms herself at it, careful not to let it consume her or to let it turn to something she doesn’t want. Biscuits satisfies her in a way she would have never thought possible from someone like him and she’s still not entirely sure how she feels about that.

But one of the things she likes best about him is that she doesn’t have to decide how she feels about it; she and he can just exist in the moment and not worry about anything else.


	14. Quarters (8/14)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quarters (8/14)

The sound of the minigun fills the room, drowning out all other sounds. The chambers spin and a hundred bullets slam through the plaster wall and chew it up, turning it to dust. The gun thrums and it’s a struggle to keep it pointing straight, though she manages to do so. It’s over soon enough, the spinning barrel slowing as it runs out of bullets and replacing the endless drone of bullets firing with the click click click of firing pins hitting air.

He doesn’t touch her until she looks to him and then he’s there in a moment, taking the gun from her hands and dropping it on a table. Snowman appreciates that; she thought for a moment he might patronize her and attempt to ‘help’ her fire the gun. But he knows her well by now and he gives her the space she wants, right up until she sends him a signal that she welcomes his attention now.

“Feels fucking great, don’t it?” He’s excited, maybe more excited than her, one hand on her hip and him leaning into her space. Quarters is one of the few people she knows who’s taller than her and she finds it a bit of a novelty to look up for once instead of constantly down. His hand is solid and he talks fast as fast as his gun shoots. “I can’t sit still when I finish firing it. I just have to keep moving, looking for another target or just trying to shake the adrenalin off.”

She understands now why he always seems to pace when they’re on a job. The rush is quite overwhelming and her heart races in her chest. Snowman places a hand on his chest to steady herself, her legs a little wobbly from the force of the gun. She’s hardly a wilting flower, but that was one powerful gun and when she breathes in, she feels the way it rattled against her chest. “It’s quite a thrill.”

“Nothing better. Well. Almost nothing better.” He looks at the hand on his chest and grins a little at her. Snowman’s not given Quarters much thought before, but he’s comfortingly solid and she finds that rather appealing when her legs are like jelly. “You uh, want to try it again?”

“Yes.” The word comes out without any hesitation. It would be best to wait until she’s composed herself again, but she doesn’t want to wait that long, not when the adrenaline is still rushing through her veins. “Though you may have to let me lean a little against you.”

The grin on his face makes it crystal clear that he won’t have any problem with that at all.


	15. Cans (8/15)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cans (8/15)

Snowman can count the number of times she’s seen him truly angry on one hand. For a big man, he’s very peaceful and calm, almost always choosing to resolve issues with his words rather than his fists. She’s seen him use those fists, dealing out both careful taps to send people where they need to be and, on rare occasion, punishing punches that smash a person straight through time and space.

He’s a gentleman in the most complimentary sense of the term, a gentle man who keeps his voice at a comfortable register and who is the first to offer a hand, no matter what you may be doing or how unpleasant or hard it will be. She notes his good qualities in those first few months when he is always the first to stand and volunteer to put the library back in order after Die puts it out of order, or to help repair the garage when Itchy drives his car through the side. While she does not offer to help, she watches him do his work and notes the way he simply does what must be done without demanding congratulations.

The first time she takes note of him as anything other than a tolerable teammate is shortly after Fin is shot in the chest by a bank guard and Cans promptly punts them two years in the future. It’s the first real, raw emotion she’s seen from him and in that moment, she remembers the way her husband used to move, scepter clenched in his fist as he would bring it down on the ground below him and make it quake.

It’s not fair to court someone because they remind you of your once husband, but she finds herself spending time with him all the same. He’s not like the Black King and he is like him; endlessly gentle but vengeful when the ones he’s loyal to are hurt, big and broad and strong but with the careful touch of a man who knows his own strength and who worries about hurting others. Snowman’s not certain if she sees him as truly separate enough to date him. She’s also not certain if it really matters if she does or doesn’t.

All of her indecision is laid to rest the day Slick sticks a knife between her ribs and the next thing she sees is a green fist smashing Slick straight in the face and sending him off to who knows where. She stumbles and he catches her, holding her so carefully that you could almost forget she saw him break open Slick’s face half a second ago. When he asks her, “Are you okay?”, she finds it in herself to smile and assure him that yes, she’s quite okay now.


	16. The City (8/16)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The City (8/16)

Snowman wishes she didn’t love the city. 

It’s nothing like Derse; dirty and dusty, and the rains come so infrequently and they never wash the filth away. It’s dangerous after dark and there are people sleeping in the streets, drunk or homeless or both. The stink of dead things always wafts up from the south, where the sailors dock at the wharves and dump whatever they can’t sell on the shores. The cops are corrupt and the booze is expensive and the food is unregulated. 

And yet she loves Midnight City. Snowman loves how it’s alive all the time, music pumping out of hidden speakeasies and all the lights on from sundown to sunrise, guiding drunks and laborers alike. She loves the way people dance, throwing their whole bodies into it and abandoning themselves to the steady beat of a drum. Snowman enjoys the small pleasure that comes from indulging in illegal vices, each drink a forbidden temptation that makes up for the price. Not that she has to worry about purchasing her own drinks, not when there’s always someone who sidles up beside her and is willing to purchase the once-Queen of Derse a drink for the pleasure of her company. 

The city is a lot like Slick and, like Slick, she finds herself unable to stop associating with it. She goes out for dinners, she watches films and plays, she walks through the park and shops at the stores and everywhere she goes, she find something new and novel. This city isn’t static; it’s always changing, always growing. Derse was a static society and she never knew how much she longed for movement until this very moment. 

Snowman wishes she didn’t love the city but she does, and so long as she loves it, she’ll be there every night, losing herself in a kaleidoscope of lights and pleasures.


	17. Sleep (8/17)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep (8/17)

Sleeping for pleasure wasn’t something that occurred to her until after she was exiled. After all, she had a job and a duty to her people, and more than that, she had a routine to follow. Up in the morning at 7am, bathe and dress, eat and then take her place in the throne room for those early morning audiences with her people. At night, she would follow the routine backwards, more or less, always turning in at exactly 11pm.

She sleeps in to noon some days. She stays up until the sun rises. She naps when she feels even slightly tired. Sleep is a pleasant activity, a way of killing time that’s faster than the rest and surprisingly pleasant. Her dreams amuse her when she remembers them, and when she doesn’t, she still enjoys how well rested she feels. 

Some nights, she stays up well and truly late, reading books by the light of her lamp, putting off sleep in order to finish this next chapter, and the one after that, and the three after that. It’s a rebellion in a way, though one long overdue and delayed by all those duties on Derse that in the end didn’t mean much of anything. Other nights, she turns in early, sleeping undisturbed from sunset to late sunrise, dark curtains to keep out the light and earplugs to reduce the cacophony of the Felt to nothing but dim thuds and murmurs.

She wonders sometimes how things would have been different if she had indulged in sleeping late while she still ruled Derse. Would she have seen Slick coming when she was better rested? Or would have it just been another reason on her list of charges as to why she should be exiled? The answer is beyond her. 

But at least there is always sleep.


	18. The Desert (8/18)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Desert (8/18)

She learns new things about herself all the time, things that simply never occurred to her before. She learns that betrayal evokes a physical reaction in her, a clenching of teeth and fists, an ugly shaking rage that overtakes her when she realizes the truth of her exile. She learns she has mild agoraphobia as she heads across the sands, all too uncomfortably aware of the lack of buildings on any sides, stuck in a sea of sand without their comforting bulk at her back to cover part of that endless sky. She learns that hunger makes her first cranky and angry, and then slothful, and finally, simply miserable. She learns that sand is among the worst substances to get in the joints of your carapace and that even a single grain can make each step a misery. 

She learns the majesty of colours. 

If there is one thing that makes her walk through the desert tolerable, it’s the constantly shifting landscape around her. All her years have been spent on Derse, surrounded by purple towers and purple rooms and purple as far as the eye can see, or staring at the gold of Propsit through a telescope, or the white and black of the Battlefield. But here she sees other colours; greens and pinks, blues and greys. Red rocks just up here and there, and among the sands, she finds the ruins of a dead civilization, their hives in grey and in beige, in black and in white. 

Her time in the desert is brief, ending after a few weeks when Doc Scratch retrieves her (and she is ever so grateful, until the day she realizes that he knew of her exact time of arrival and could have retrieved her when she stepped off the ship, not weeks later). But she still enjoys watching the sands from the comfort of her room, seeing them shift in the wind and reveal and endless assortment of colours.


	19. Undead (8/19)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Undead (8/19)

They fell upon the Mansion in the dead of night, broken bodies dragging across the sands. Their flesh was mostly fallen away or turned to harsh leather, held together by who knows what. The years had been cruel to those undead things and many of them died in the crush against the doors and windows, smashed before the glass gave way to the pushing behind them or trod underfoot when the doors bowed and bent. 

Snowman was one of the last to wake, her bedroom safely near the top of the mansion. She heard the gunfire and quickly dressed, fetching her revolver and her whip. The latter did not seem useful at first, until she realize that a carefully placed snap could sever the body and head at the neck, and the chewing heads were much more easily dealt with, crushed beneath her heels. 

The other men were busy, pour round after round into the animated corpses. They had been dead so long that they no longer smell rotten. There was a dusty and rank smell to their bodies, stale air and dried meat, but it was not the death smell of the freshly dead and it was tolerable enough to stand. 

She fights her way downstairs to where the others are focusing their firepower on a downed door at the front of the mansion. Already, the sea of undead have slowed, turning to a river under heavy fire from the gatling gun. The air stinks of gunpower and sweat and dusty dead flesh.

“Here!” Crowbar tosses Snowman his machine gun, pointing to the door. He’s putting a tourniquet on Fin, who’s bleeding out on the floor. There’s no need for additional instructions. Snowman simply aims at the mass shambling in through the front door, gaping mouths and striped horns, and keeps the trigger compressed until they’re nothing but shreds. When the clip empties, she fetches another from the box on the floor, swiftly loading. In those thirty seconds or less, another group’s shambled in and she does to them what she did to the last. 

She goes through another three clips before Crowbar returns and she hands the gun over to him. Quarter’s gun is running out and she helps him, grabbing a new box of belted bullets and quickly sliding it into place, so all he has to do is feed the first few strands in and get going. Doze comes down the stairs, falling end over end, and just on his tail, the undead come. Who knows how they got upstairs, but there they are. She puts neat clean holes through all their heads, reloading and repeating herself until there are no more.

The battle’s over when the gunfire stops. The double doors leading into the mansion are flooded with corpses, so thick that no one dares try wade through them and risk getting bitten by something alive buried underneath. The house stinks and they all congregate outside near the cars, looking out over the dunes. There are more of them, dark place specks, all headed for Midnight City. 

It would be easy to stand there and let them take the city. What better way to destroy Slick than to see his city eaten alive? They’ve fought off a hoard and come out mostly intact. There’s no benefit in risking their neck for a city that hates them. 

“Grab everything we’ve got. I’ll take the van, Itchy take your hot rod, Quarters you grab the battle bus. Everyone else, grab a seat and make sure you’ve got all the ammo you can carry.” Crowbar delivers his orders and though they’re tired and bleeding, everyone heads off to do just that. They could let the city die, but they won’t. After all, if they did, those things would come back for seconds once they’d laid the city to waste. It’s practical, that’s all.


	20. Jail (8/20)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jail (8/20)

Snowman has never been thrown into jail. Of course, it’s not as if they haven’t tried. There is always one overly brave new cop who seems to believe that they will be the one who will get her to comply with them. They approach her, often visibly trembling, with cuffs in hands and demanding that she not resist arrest. 

Snowman has at times allowed them to slide the cuffs on her wrists, only to remind them of how easily she can escape, phasing out of them, or occasionally, breaking them to remind everyone watching her that her choice not to be physical with them is just that; a choice. She is more than capable of destroying any of them. Other times, she simply steps around them, knowing that even the newest of cops isn’t stupid enough to fire at her. 

The other men have it a little rougher since a few of them can be arrested. Crowbar’s cooled his heels in jail more times than she knows he would like to, and most of the lower-numbered Felt has had to deal with the uncomfortable beds and iron bars. The other men, the numbers above her, don’t have the same troubles getting out. Biscuits is the one who has the most trouble, but since he’s rarely without Eggs, it’s rare that they can’t just multiply until the mass of hundreds of bodies crammed in a cell causes the bars to pop out. 

She comes to visit the ones who can’t escape immediately, taking them with her when they’ve had enough of cooling their heels, or deciding when to retrieve them. Sometimes Crowbar insists on posting bail, just to keep the locals from getting too restless when they continually dodge any sort of real punishment. The others are more than happy to take her up on her offer of teleportation.

Snowman’s never been behind bars. Even when she was arrested for treason, they confined her to her chambers. Sitting behind bars, talking quietly with Crowbar about their plans, she is often glad she was not forced to suffer that particular indignity. Of course, she would prefer she never suffered it at all, but that’s gone and passed.

And as they drag Slick in and throw him into a cell across from Crowbar, she can’t help but smile. Snowman’s never been thrown into jail, but Slick certainly has.


	21. Problem Sleuth (8/21)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Problem Sleuth (8/21)

Problem Sleuth is an idiot. In a way, it’s kind of charming.

He talks so fast that his mind can’t keep up with mouth, turning into a non-stop spigot of hardboiled cliches that just make her laugh at how woefully wrong they are. On those few occasions when his mind is fully present and his mouth keeps pace, he trades in the cliches for more pertinent questions and answers, though the moment always passes quickly as he lapses into a series of quips that she’s sure he found in a book somewhere.

The man always has a light for her and a light hand everywhere else, pocketing anything and everything he seems to think might be useful. She would swear he steals more than she does, mindlessly sticking everything that’s not nailed down into a pocket or stashed deep in his inventory. Now and then, he forgets he has no slots left and something will come spilling out on the floor - a key to a men’s washroom, someone’s family photo, a fan, and even once a pink flamingo - and she will watch him agonize over picking it up and repeating the process until he finally finds an item he’s willing to discard.

He calls her ‘doll’ and ‘sister’ and ‘ma’am’ and once in awhile ‘Queen’, but never by her real name. Snowman often wonders if he even knows it. He seems to spend most of his time on those pet names, mumbling them out around cigarettes he rarely lights and mostly just leaves hanging in his lip like he’s waiting for the right moment. Sleuth introduces her to Dame once and she spends the better part of an hour talking with her before Snowman realizes that the woman’s name really is Dame, and that’s why that particular word never shows up on Sleuth’s rotating menagerie of nicknames.

Problem Sleuth’s quick with a gun, assuming he can manage to get his item doubling right the first time and isn’t trying to cram a set of keys into some poor soul’s ribs, and he’s fearless enough for a man who regularly finds a gun in his face. He doesn’t approve of her line of work but he isn’t here to save her and she appreciates that. Sleuth’s good in bed and better in a dingy alleyway, coming to life among the bricks and the discarded portions of other people’s lives. He kisses her like each kiss is their last and there’s always a pack of cigarettes somewhere in his inventory, and if not, a cigarette on his lips to offer to her.

He’s an idiot, and she wouldn’t want it any other way.


	22. Ms Paint (8/22)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ms Paint (8/22)

She finds the poor girl wearing her dress, or a version of it anyway. Snowman has never been that short in all her life, and all she does is raise an eyebrow and bring a cigarette to her mouth. She is too classy to comment on the fact that the cut does nothing for that woman’s body shape and that she would look much better in something cut to her knees and in any colour but green. She instead says, “How many days did it take before the charm wore off?”

“Just over a week.” She’s rather matter of fact about it, holding onto her paint can. There’s a splash of blood on the side from where she (presumably) beaned Slick with it. “I stuck it out because I thought he was the last of us, and those other fellows weren’t more interested in each other’s company.”

Snowman nods to herself; it’s as she expected. She takes a seat, bringing herself a little closer to Ms Paint’s level, so they’re only slightly craning to look at one another instead of bending enough to get a kink in their necks. “I put up with Slick for years when there were plenty of better choices around. Of course, he had a tendency to kill those few other choices I made.”

“He can be very rude like that.” Ms Paint smiles a little, sitting beside Snowman. “He refuses to learn the names of the other members of the Felt. It’s not even that difficult, he just doesn’t want to try.”

“Classic Slick. He was like this on Derse too you know. I’ve never seen such a spiteful man in all my years.” Snowman looks again at the paint can, tapping her fingers on her knee. “You should have Stitch make you a few new things. Floor length isn’t really flattering on you. I’d pick something that falls just above the knee.”

“All my old clothes did, but we’ve been too busy for anything new, and Andrew was rather fond of this one.” She picks at the fabric, then looks over Snowman. “I’d love a coat like yours, but without the tails and in some other colour.”

She imagines Ms Paint in a short, white trench with a bright dress underneath and finds herself not unpleased with the mental image. Not unpleased at all. “How about we go bother him now, before Slick wakes up and demands someone fix an effigy of him.” Snowman stands and waits for Ms Paint to join her, the two women heading down the hall in style.


	23. Vampire (8/23)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vampire (8/23)

The first time she drinks from one of them, she bites down too hard, too used to having to break through shell instead of soft skin. She feels it tear too easily, fuzzy giving way to blood - too much blood. It’s too late to stop herself and she just keeps Die’s head tilted to the side, drinking deeply from what gushes into her mouth.

Die makes a shrill sound but it dies in his throat when she sucks, his breath just rattling in his chest as the pain fades and he calms. His blood is thick and red and sweet in her mouth, filling her belly. She drains him of a few pints, forcing herself to stop and licking the wound clean. “Stitch, go ahead.”

He stares at the gaping wound on Die’s throat and then gets to work, sewing up the far neater tear on the effigy, shoving fluff inside. Die gasps softly, hyperventilating as his veins and arteries knit back together, his skin finally sealing up with a little help from her saliva. He’s noticeably aroused and embarrassed when he realizes everyone can see, though his cheeks don’t flush.

“Try to calm down,” She tells him kindly, setting him on a nearby coat, “your body needs that blood elsewhere.”

Crowbar looks at Snowman, mouth half-open to ask her a question, when Itchy shoves his way to the front of the line. “ME, YOU’RE BITING ME NEXT!”

She can’t help but chuckle slightly and pat her lap. Itchy’s in it in half a second, opening his collar up and baring his neck for her. Snowman runs her fingers over and parts her mouth, making a note to herself to be a little more gentle with him than with Die. Another two pints from him, and two pints from Crowbar, and two pints from Doze, and then she should be fed for another week. “Just relax.”

“Oh sure, no problem-aahh!” He doesn’t scream the way Die did as her teeth sink into Itchy’s throat, but he still makes a sound. Snowman does her best to not let it show how deeply satisfying it is, focusing instead of the thick blood filling her mouth.


	24. Midnight Zoo (8/24)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Midnight Zoo (8/24)

Snowman often wakes to a pair of yellow eyes near her face and the chirping sound of Prince asking for breakfast. Even when she has someone sleeping in bed with her, the cougar often invites himself in, heading to Snowman’s side if he has any respect for whoever sleeps with Snowman or directly climbing into the bed and stepping on her lover if he doesn’t.

This morning, she sleeps alone, and when she opens an arm, Prince settles against her side, purring roughly. When she tries to go back to sleep, he nudges his face against hers and kneads her bed. That gets her awake, if only to prevent him from ripping up her mattress. She goes through enough sheets without his ‘assistance’; a new mattress this often would be downright unacceptable.

Snowman slips a dressing gown on and together they head downstairs and out to the backyard, where all the big animals eat. Fin and Trace are up and feeding their crocodile and alligator, tossing fresh meat into the pool of water their Animals tend to live in. Prince smells the meat and heads toward them, easily snatching a steak out of Trace’s hand and taking off with it. “Hey you- Snowman! You need to make him stop doing that! He’s going to take off my fingers one of these days!”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. If he was going to eat any of your appendages he would have done so long before now.” She fetches a few steaks from the bucket of meat, careful to keep them held away from her body to keep from dripping onto her dressing robe. Prince is busy tearing the steak to pieces, but when she whistles to him, he abandons his prize, heading over to take what Snowman has to offer him. Those great jaws open and show her his long fangs and rough tongue, snatching the steaks from the air as she throws them. She’s seen him crush a skull with his jaw and disembowel people with those claws of his. He’s been by her side since she killed the White Queen and she can’t imagine life without him anymore.

There’s a thumping and hissing sound as Clover comes down the stairs on the back of his komodo dragon and Fin and Trace scatter before the dragon can bite anyone. She watches the beast knock over the pail and dig into the meat with gusto, and then leans down to let Prince lick her hand clean. “What a good boy you are.” Snowman scratches the top of his head and listens to him purr as he fills his belly.


	25. Authority Regulator (8/25)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Authority Regulator (8/25)

All it would take to destroy his reputation is to be seen together in public. A single photograph would ruin him. Even a whisper about their arrangement could cost him his job. She knows that. He knows that.

And yet, the Authority Regulator does not throw her out of his apartment when she visits him. His place was lacking when she first met him, and it still lacks now, but he’s replaced the bed at her request and he always carries her favorite tea. There are times when he tries so very hard to tell her that she must leave, that this can’t continue. There are times when he says nothing of that sort, letting himself pretend for the moment that they are not who they are, that she is his Queen and he is still a loyal subject. There are even times when he says nothing at all, as if speaking will destroy whatever this is. But there is never a time when he refuses to touch her.

Snowman is forbidden fruit and it turns out that the Chief Regulator has a sweet tooth that refuses to be denied. He is an adequate lover, though he never truly believes it. She helps him learn her body and his own, careful to curb her laughter when he is clumsy or too excited. It isn’t the sort of relationship where you eat dinner together or dance in the living room, though sometimes she suspects he might want that sort of thing from her. It’s hard enough getting him in bed though, and attempting anything else would surely end with him begging her to leave again.

The first bed was too small for her, so well-worn that you could feel each spring. He replaced it rather than be forced to go to the Felt Mansion and risk being seen by her fellow mobsters. He replaced it early on and though he never said why, she knew it was for her.

The new bed is large and comfortable. There are days even she has trouble rousing herself from bed, preferring to sleep in with an arm thrown around his waist. It’s sinfully soft, and though she knows it must be hell for AR to leave it, he does all the same, waking her when he squirms out from underneath her arm and slipping into the bathroom. She slumbers while he showers and dresses and eats, waking now and again to look at him. There are days when he sits on the bed when he’s ready, just watching her for a few moments until she smiles at him and coaxes him into a kiss (but never anything more, he resists that even when her fingers pick at his tie or his belt). Sometimes, there are days when he leaves immediately, as if just seeing her would break his self control.

But the best days are the ones where he has no work, and he just lays in bed with her. They talk a little about the past and a little about the present, and once or twice, about the future. They mostly remain silent though, AR just resting his head in the crook of her shoulder and rubbing a hand along her hip. It’s a good bed to lounge in, and a better bed to eat in, though they’re both careful not to get crumbs everywhere. He makes her tea and cuts up fresh fruit, and they stay curled around each other until nearly noon, indulging in something a police chief and criminal certainly never should.

Maybe one day, she’ll destroy him for fun or profit, or because she’s been ordered to by Lord English. Maybe one day, he’ll destroy himself over the guilt he feels. Either way, this won’t last forever. But while it lasts, she’ll be sure to enjoy it. Hopefully, he’ll be smart enough to do the same.


	26. Ordinary (8/26)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ordinary (8/26)

Four months into her exile, she feels a presence. But when she looks around, there is no one there. The feeling lingers a few more days before disappearing, leaving her feeling disappointed and uneasy. The rest of her exile is no more memorable than anyone else’s. She avoids anyone she sees on the horizon and manages to scrounge up enough water and food to survive until the day she finds somewhere worth staying; a broken hive on the banks of a fresh water river.

She rebuilds it because there is nothing else to do. Manual labour is not particularly interesting but it passes the time. The wall collapses a few times until she figures out the trick, finally managing to make it stick. She makes a home of it, filling it with what few worthwhile things she finds.

Others find the river and set up a home there. She doesn’t venture out to meet them. After all, she has what she needs here and if she let them in, she would have to share (and that itself assumes they would share and not take what they wanted and kill her since being a queen means nothing with a crown and the power to back it up). Instead, she slips out at night to gather what she needs, and when the time comes that they get too curious at her tower, she builds a small trading slot and exchanges what she has for food and other things, letting them believe she is scarred somehow and unwilling to be seen.

The town grows around her. It never becomes less dangerous to be seen, so she remains unseen in her tower, repairing it late at night and trading things as needed. Her rooms become better than they were, but she is still the only one who sits in them. It’s a little lonely, but better this than dead.

She becomes a sort of legend as the years pass and she remains in her tower. The trading never fully stops, but it dies down after a while. The people who come to her are the ones who can’t find what they need anywhere else. She has access to the ruins below, having had plenty of time to dig into them, and she brings up all sorts of things that the town doesn’t have yet and might never make on their own. Others just bring her food to talk. Some of them suspect who she is but they never ask her outright and she would certainly never answer if they did. They bring her things and all they ask is that they speak to them for a little while.

A part of her knows this isn’t right. This isn’t what she was meant to do. But the moment is long passed, little more than a faint anxious feeling when she thinks back to her time in the desert. She’s safe here after all, fed and comfortable and with a view from the top of the tower that is second to none. Perhaps one day they’ll have her surrounded by buildings so she can only see steel and glass on either side. Maybe on that day, she’ll have to leave her tower and find somewhere new.

Until then, she’ll remain here, passing her time and ignoring the uneasy feelings there are always with her.


	27. Socialite (8/27)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Socialite (8/27)

Halfway through the party, the Midnight Crew blows the doors off their hinges. She’s in the middle of talking with a steel baron about some sort of partnership in building a high speed train to travel above the city and provide efficient transportation, and they both cringe as the house shudders and heat floods the room from the blast. Her hearing is mildly compromised from the bomb but she can still hear Slick’s shrill voice as he starts yelling out the inevitable orders for everyone to hand over their things. 

Snowman doesn’t hesitate, quickly walking out the room and up the stairs. She’s not the only one, though the others are busy running to other exits that she knows will inevitable be barred. Snowman heads upstairs, sliding her mink stole off her shoulders and lying it over her arm, opening her purse and withdrawing a compact. She checks her make-up and then snaps it shut, fetching a tissue to wipe it away. 

She opens the nearest bedroom and steps inside, stripping quickly. Her valuables go behind a dresser where they won’t be stolen because if someone touches her necklace, she’ll murder them. From her purse, she draws out the tightly folded package Doc Scratch put in there for her when she left the house, exchanging her dress for a tight black catsuit. 

Snowman sticks the mask to her face with spirit gum. Not for the first time, she wonders if she should bother with a mask. After all, it should be obvious by now that the Baroque Qualiter is also the vigilante Snowman. Yet her names have yet to be connected and there are still articles published wondering who Snowman’s real identity is. It’s a shame that they have the question the wrong way around.

With her items stowed, she straps on her pistol and coils her whip around her arm, slipping out into the corridor. Power will be in the basement and she’ll need to shut that down before she goes after the Crew. Snowman makes for the stairwell leading down before Slick and the rest can make their way upstairs.


	28. Cyberpunk (8/28)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyberpunk (8/28)

Snowman rifles through his memories like an old file box, ignoring the way Slick screeches at her to stop. His body is under her control and while she sorts through his mind, she has his body walk to a nearby bench and sit down, activating his glasses so it looks like he’s merely scanning headlines or watching some sort of video. No one looks twice at the scruffy man sitting there. No one knows that there are two minds in one body. 

There is nothing terribly unexpected there. Orphaned by the ‘Nza like everyone at that age, lived in the ruins of the greater Northwest until he was old enough to get a job, worked in Valley until he was thrown out (and oh she takes an extra moment to relish that memory, savoring the way Slick rages when he realizes that she’s behind his firing) and took to being a freelance console cowboy. She remarks on that, highlighting exactly how little he’s accomplished since then. 

What she gets is a red hot flurry of rage. It’s enough to even make a few fingers twitch on his left hand. Interesting. Snowman keeps that particular little piece of knowledge from him. The longer he thinks he has no power here, the better. 

His sexual fantasies are equally predictable and trite and she holds each to the light to embarrass him, letting him squirm as she goes through dozens that involve her. Most of those are set at their old workplace, requiring some implausible reasoning to explain why he’s in a position of power over her. The more interesting ones actually resemble their working relationship and the fury he feels is enough to turn his face red when she laughs at him for wanting her to dominate him and destroy him. 

Is that what you really want, she asks and reaches out to adjust his tie, running his fingers down his chest, you want me to dominate you? 

When she has him stand, his cheeks are red and he’s still raging deep inside of her, blustering long and hard to cover up how embarrassed he is. But she knows exactly how embarrassed he is, just as she knows that the lifts in these shoes are starting to hurt his hips, and that he’s hungry and… oh, aroused apparently. She grins and his face grins with her as she asks him if he wants her to take care of that. 

The rage momentarily subsides, turning into deep embarrassment and longing, only to twist into fury as he remembers she knows everything he’s thinking. Snowman laughs, ignoring the few walking people who hesitate and glance over, trying to decide if Slick is homeless and crazy or if he’s just high. She heads down the street, still going through his mind like it’s a rummage sale in the hopes of finding a diamond in all of this coal.


	29. Magical Girls (8/29)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magical Girls (8/29)

The moment she hears Slick’s voice, her hand slips into her pocket, grasping the 8-ball in there. She sees Crowbar and Die do the same, reaching for their own pool balls. By the time Slick gets out a “Well well well, what do we have here-”, she’s already turning and pulling it from her pocket, tossing it into the air. 

The black ball cracks and blue fills the air, turning the area around her dark. She can’t breathe but she doesn’t need to, not here anyway. This is a safe place where it’s just her and the universe, resting between the moments of time. Her feet lift off the ground as it begins and she hangs there, suspended in the air as the 8-ball does it’s work. 

A billion stars light up the area around her as her body begins to glow and her clothes change. Her dress dissolves as starlight sweeps over her, changing into her black and green trench. A comet swoops around her head, the trail of light giving way to the felt of her hat. All the stars flare around her and inside of her, her shell lighting up with nebulas and supernovas. She can feel the power flowing into her, transforming everything about her until she’s exactly as she should be. 

Snowman’s feet touch down on the alleyway again and she lifts a hand up, catching the 8-ball as it drops and transforms into her lance. She can see Crowbar and Die undergoing their own transformation on either side of her, the great grinning skulls of smoke and ash surrounding Die as his top hat pops into existence, and the cherry blossoms surrounding Crowbar burst outward, leaving him in his suit. 

They both land beside her, Crowbar catching the 7-ball as it turns into a crowbar, and Die fumbling slightly with his 6-ball, barely managing to keep his grip on his doll. At least he caught it. Most of the time, Biscuits drops his and knocks himself out with the stove. Crowbar raises his crowbar and points it at Slick. “You’ve got yourself a fight.” 

“Three against one, huh?” Slick’s got all his teeth showing, but it’s still too close to a grin to bring her any comfort. He draws a card from his deck and flips it, still smiling as all the shadows rush in to transform him. “Now that just might be some fun.”


	30. A Song of Ice and Fire (8/30)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Song of Ice and Fire (8/30)

It took a week for her husband to die. Even a Targaryen could burn in a dragon’s flame, though he was stronger than most and his passing was not easy. She sat by him, ignoring the smell that lingered in the room and the way his skin had sloughed off under the flame, leaving him with little more than muscle and pus beneath the bandages. The Black Queen insisted on feeding him herself and on helping change his bandages. He spoke little and when he died, it was in her arms. 

She couldn’t stand to put him on a pyre, not after seeing what flame had done to him, and so he was buried deep in the Red Keep where there would only be cool stone to surround him. All through the funeral, she could feel Jack’s eyes on her, watching her like a dog watches a bone. Her eyes stayed on her husband, covered in silks and flowers with the stink of charred flesh still rising off his body. 

The Queen wore black and red, as was her custom even before the untimely death of her husband, a veil covering her face to hide the expression beneath. On Rhaenys’s hill, the Dragonpit loomed, and through the windows shone the fire of a dozen dragons, furious over the death of one of their own. The day after he burnt the King alive, they slit Duodecim’s throat while he slept and bled the beast out in the gardens where he’d made a nest for himself. It had only been right they said.

But she had seen dragons gone wild before. When she was a child, her mother’s dragon went wild upon her death and turned the Hand’s tower into a nest. It took months to remove her and many were lost. But Duodecim slept soundly in the gardens and did not even stir once. That was not the sort of thing a wild dragon did. 

“Your majesty,” Jack interrupted her thoughts. He was wearing black and red as well, but the red was bordered with gold and not for the first time, she wondered what his true intentions were, and to whom his loyalties lay; the Targaryens, or the Lannisters? “I’d like to speak to you in the Tower of the Hand to discuss our next plans.” 

Yes, she’s sure he would. Perhaps he’d like to bed her there and suggest they consolidate her power with him, for her own safety of course. How long then until she had her own ‘accident’? Greedy fool.

“Of course.” She leads the way and lets him follow, moving quickly to keep up. There will be plans made, but most of them will involve Jack in the gullet of her darling dragon, the Blackflyer.


	31. The Felt (8/31)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Felt (8/31)

They were playing cards at one point, but that was before Die caught Itchy cheating and instead of sulking to another timeline, he took a swing and they ended up wrestling on the floor. Now in the age old tradition of all men, they’ve decided to make wrestling part of tonight’s activities and she’s watching Fin and Trace grapple with each other on the floor, shirtless and bleeding from each other’s teeth.

Crowbar leans on the table beside her, still panting from his round with Matchsticks. He’s sweaty and also drunk, holding a blunt between his fingers. She’s more used to him being the one who shuts down the party, but there’s a lazy grin on his face and his face is very red, flushed with blood. “Hi. Snowman, hey.”

“Hi.” She smiles and takes the blunt from him, taking another hit. Snowman should be sobering up but she doesn’t want to, not entirely anyway. Mostly she would settle for being able to stand up straight. “That was a good fight.” 

Yeah. I lost but it’s okay because it’s Matchsticks y’know. He’s an okay guy to lose to. I don’t really want to fight Fin or Trace. They’re biters.” He talks fast when he’s high, pausing only to wipe the sweat off his forehead. She wants to run her fingers down his chest and she does after a second of resistance, tracing the muscles there. Crowbar flushes harder, ducking his head. “Uh, um. Can you believe Die won while fighting Itchy? Well. Won’s not really the world. I mean I’m pretty sure Itchy wasn’t fighting him at the end just. Grinding on him. Like he is now. I should probably break that up. Somebody’s going to make a mess in their pants.” 

Snowman glances over at Itchy and Die and at the hand crammed down the front of Die’s pants. She shrugs, running her fingers up his chest. “I would wrestle you, but I’m too drunk to.” 

“Me too. And it wouldn’t be right you know. You’re a queen and all that. Plus I’d have to put my hands on you and. Uh.” He seems to realize he’s on the edge of something and tries to back off. “Well. I mean it’s mostly all the same as them. And I wrestle with them. But. You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.” She coaxes him to lean down, smiling at him. Her face feels a little funny. “I still want to wrestle with you, upstairs, in my bed.” That wasn’t particular subtle and tomorrow, she might cringe to remember it and wonder at what point did alcohol reduce her to having all the charm of Slick. But she doesn’t need to be subtle when she’s dealing with a half-naked Crowbar, resting her fingers on the top of his belt. 

“Uh.” She glances over at Sawbuck, sitting beside her and looking somewhat hopeful. “Room for three?” 

“What about meeeeee!” Clover scrambles up her legs, perching on her knees and looking at her with those wide eyes. And of course, now they’re all looking at her, even Fin and Trace who have temporarily put their wrestling on hold. Itchy’s still feeling Die up but even he’s managed to cast his eyes toward her. 

The part of her that normally would chime in at this point to tell Snowman to simply teleport out is absent, perhaps drowned by the combination of delicious drinks and very good weed. She looks around at the men and finds herself intrigued at the idea. “Have any of you ever been with a woman before?” 

There are a few glances around before a smattering of hands are raised from Itchy, Fin, Sawbuck, Quarters and strangely enough Die. Huh. Crowbar just gets even more red faced and she laughs a little, coaxing him down to give him a peck on the lips. “You can say no. Nobody’s going to make you do anything you don’t want.”

“I know. Which is the entire reason I feel comfortable saying yes.” She picks up Clover and sets him on the table, putting her feet up and leaning back in her chair. “Come on boys, let’s-”

The sentence goes unfinished as her chair tips a little too far back and she falls over onto the floor. Apparently she’s too drunk to sit. That puts a bit of a damper on the whole orgy thing.


End file.
